


An Ode to Matty Big-Time

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Jacksonville Tomfoolery, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: “We probably shouldn’t do any butt stuff,” Jason warns, with as much gravitas as he can muster. “I had two of Stupid Nick’s Disaster Buckets when I got here.”“Yeah, your face is still kinda orange,” Mateo agrees fondly, bringing his other hand up to brush his thumb over Jason’s lower lip. It stirs a little frisson of heat in his belly that Jason is 68% sure isn’t just indigestion. “No chemical burns, though, so I think you came out on top.”(Loosely based on that excellent Tumblr post about how all TGP characters should be bi.)
Relationships: Jianyu Li | Jason Mendoza/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 35





	An Ode to Matty Big-Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSummoningDark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSummoningDark/gifts).



> My dearest **TheSummoningDark** asked for some Jason-on-dude action circa [that fantastic (and accurate) Tumblr post about why every TGP character should be bi.]() And lo, I have come to provide.
> 
> Not beta-read, apologies for any glaring errors. [This is basically what I imagine Matty Big-Time looks like, for anyone who's curious.](https://thrillingdetectivetales.dreamwidth.org/file/192080.jpg) Though I encourage you to headcanon him as you see fit~

Jason is elbow deep in Stupid Nick's Butt-Searing Buffalo Sauce and has just finished shotgunning his fifth tall-boy of Natty Lite when he decides that the best way to free himself from the familiar burn prickling up his forearms, all across his chin, and down his throat is to take a dip in Pillboi's hot tub. The jets are busted, like always, but Truck Nutz and Mooseknuckle Dave hauled fifteen coolers of swampy water up from the runoff creek before the party started and dumped a half a bottle of bleach in on top of it to make the whole thing authentic.

"Gotta get the smell right, y'know? Ain't a real summertime experience 'less it got that good, good water park stank," Truck Nutz had said, double-tapping his fist against his sternum while Mooseknuckle Dave leaned soberly over the side of the hot tub and used a plastic noodle strainer to skim the dead fish and marsh weeds off the top.

Pillboi had even hauled a space heater out from the ceiling-high stacks of busted home appliances he keeps stashed in the garage to try and make the water hot. It didn't do much beyond charring a black oblong into the scrubby lawn before it sparked and blew a fuse, but the water is pretty warm anyway, only a few degrees cooler than the sticky eighty-degree night.

Jason doesn't notice that there's another person balanced on the opposite lip of the hot tub until he's heaving himself over the side and splashing into the murky depths, kicking all the silt up from the bottom and sending a wave slopping onto the grass to soak the abandoned cigarette butts and burned-out roaches scattered around like dirty confetti.

Dirty Confetti, he considers, would be a totally dope name for a new track. He downloaded a pack of these totally wild old-school synth beats from DJDealz.biz the other day and he's been itching to test them out on something, assuming they don't immediately crash his Acer as soon as he unzips them.

"Sorry bro." He grins an apology at the guy and sinks into the water until it's just under his nose. It stings a little—and totally reeks like a public pool, mad props to Truck Nutz—but the tingling sear of twelve FDA-condemned secret spices in a cayenne butter sauce starts to fade so Jason is willing to call it a wash. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s what you call it when you’re scrubbing wing sauce off your skin in the middle of your best buddy's Summer Spring Break Buffalo Bonanza Get Down and Body-Blast Subscription Supplements Enrollment Party.

The dude on the edge of hot tub is like, movie star hot, with a cascading mane of wavy brown hair spilling down to his shoulders. The tub’s interior bulbs all burned out years ago and the whole thing is sitting too far away from the tiki torches ringing the yard to catch any of their flickering glow, but it shines like satin even in the dim starlight. Jason kind of wants to touch it.

The guy is wearing a pair of aviator shades that have had the lenses knocked out, and a long string of pooka shells that reaches all the way down the toned plane of his abdomen to the waistband of a pair of Day-Glo shorts that are the funny almost-yellow, almost-green color of a brand new tennis ball. The polyester pulls and bunches over the shifting muscles of his thighs as he shuffles out of the wet spot.

“All cool, bro,” he assures, producing a fat joint from behind his ear. He sets it against his lip with the lazy ease of the very stoned and flashes Jason a wink.

It’s a very good look, overall, and Jason goggles at the guy for a second longer before bobbing up out of the water just enough to eagerly inform him, “Dude, did you know you’re like, movie star hot?”

The guy laughs around the joint, patting at his chest like he’s looking for a lighter in his shirt pocket, only he’s not wearing a shirt. There’s a scattering of dark hair across his pecs, leading all the way from his nipples down below his belly-button and under that glaring yellow waistband. Jason wonders vaguely if he manscapes.

“Tell that to your cheekbones,” the guy offers, and Jason grins and ducks his head, sinking back down. The guy recognizes his own state of undress a second later and sucks his teeth in disappointment. He leans back into his hands and glances to his left, then to his right, but doesn't seem to find what he's looking for. He turns back toward the tub and blinks in surprise to find Jason there, blowing bubbles to the tune of Party Rock Anthem.

"Hey," the guy says, plucking the joint from his lip with a slow, pleased grin. He leans forward so the water swishes around his calves where he has his feet submerged. "You got a light on you, pretty boy?"

Jason stands up, his sleeveless Blake Bortles jersey a sodden weight around his shoulders, and peers down at himself. His arms are still stained faintly orange from the buffalo sauce, which looks kind of sick up against the brackish green of the water. He turns his hands palm up and then back down and up again, flexing his fingers, and sighs, "Whoa."

"Yeah," the guy agrees, lifting one of his own hands and mirroring the motion. "Hands are fuckin' dope. And like. Fingers, right?"

"Right." Jason nods emphatically and pats down his board shorts, but there's no lighter to be found. He's pretty sure that even if he had one, it would be useless, considering he's basically up to his ribs in good ol' fashioned Jacksonville juice. It’s a weird name for simple swamp water, but that’s what the moonshiners off the highway call it, and Jason has seen them chasing enough water moccasins out of the mouths of gallon jugs while they cut their bathtub hooch in the marshes that he figures they would know.

"Sorry man," he shrugs. The guy doesn't look too bummed, thankfully. Jason reaches up to push his ball cap—Jaguars, obviously, and with the brim at the back as God intended—out of the way so he can scratch at his hair. He barely manages to catch the lighter he had shoved up under his hatband before it goes tumbling into the water. "Oh, shit, homie!" he laughs, holding it up. "Check it out!"

"Bro!" the guy drawls, and extends a closed fist.

Jason bumps their knuckles together and hands the lighter over. The guy has an elastic hair-tie on his wrist next to one of those woven bracelets, the kind with little gold beads at the tails and a fake medallion dangling from the center that has some Chinese character embossed on it. The burnished red looks great against his tan, up against the dark, wet hairs sweeping in short diagonals across his skin.

The guy lifts the lighter to his mouth, the faded bald eagle and billowing American flag disappearing under his fingers, and rolls the wheel until the flame hisses to life. He puffs a couple of times, until the cherry catches, and then sighs a thick white stream out into the dark.

"Fuck, man," he says through his teeth. He reaches over to hand the lighter back and then leans back again, waggling the joint in the air. "You want in on this?"

"Hell yeah, bro!" Jason announces, and wades over to get a knee up on the seat where the guy is resting his feet. The inside of his thigh brushes the guy’s calf as he takes the joint and hits it—a slow, deep breath that he holds in his lungs until it stings. He offers the joint back before he exhales, and the guy lets their fingers tangle together for a second as he takes it.

"Who are you, anyway?" Jason asks when he can breathe again, dropping down to sprawl back on the bench seat with his arms up over the edge of the tub. In this position, his right elbow is nudging against the guy's thigh, but he doesn't seem to mind. Jason certainly doesn't—the guy’s skin is smooth and warm. It's nice. "I thought I knew all the cool people at this party already," Jason continues, "but you're like. Way fucking cool, man. And hot." Inspiration strikes and Jason gently slaps his hand to the guy's bare thigh, leaning in and enthusing, "Dude, you should be in the next Transformers movie!"

The guy smiles with his mouth closed around the joint, twin plumes of smoke drifting out of his nostrils. "My name is Mateo,” he says, through a thick, gauzy breath.

"Mateo," Jason echoes, slow and curious. He still has one hand on Mateo's thigh, thumb sweeping absently back and forth as he tries to slog through his beer-soaked thoughts. "Mateo. Mat - Oh shit!" He squeezes Mateo's leg and announces, "You're Matty Big-Time! Man, Pillboi told me about you. You work at the senior center, too, right?”

Mateo nods, curls swaying in a glossy curtain. “Yeah man. It’s a pretty sweet gig. And Pillboi is, y’know.” He takes another long, lazy drag, and sighs, “Solid.”

“Pillboi is the best,” Jason agrees. “He’s super cool and he throws the raddest parties and he always posts bail for me, like last week when they picked me up after they busted that underground python-wrestling ring.”

Mateo tilts his head and pushes the empty frames of his sunglasses up into his hair. “Were you wrestling?”

Jason shakes his head.

“Running a pool?” Mateo tries again.

“Nah, man,” Jason says, leaning back and slinging his elbow over Mateo’s thigh as he gestures in the air in front of him. “Get this! Me and Donkey Doug stole a couple of those portable air tanks from Paddy’s Party Emporium and set up selling balloon animals. You know a snake is like, the easiest balloon animal to make? All you have to do is fill the balloon up with like, air or whatever, and then you tie off the end and draw eyes on it with a marker. And it was a snake fight, right, so me and Donkey Doug figured we were gonna make bank, only I thought what’s even better than balloon animals?”

He looks at Mateo with his eyebrows raised expectantly. Mateo looks back down at him, squinting for a long second before he gives a decisive nod and pronounces, “Real animals.”

“Real animals!” Jason parrots. He stills for a second and then brings his free hand up to his chest, flashing Mateo a small, sincere, close-mouthed grin. “You really get me, dog, you know that?”

Mateo smirks and reaches down to take Jason’s cap off and situate on his own head instead. He looks good in it. _Real_ good, with that cascade of caramel hair tumbling out from underneath, Jaguars teal bright over his dark eyes. Jason licks his lips and Mateo takes another pull of the joint and then passes it down to him.

“So,” Mateo presses. “Real animals.”

“Mmm,” Jason hums around the joint. He hisses the smoke out through his teeth and then coughs and clears his throat, offering in a tight rasp, “Right.” He holds the joint up. 

Rather than taking it back, this time Mateo wraps his fingers around Jason’s wrist, guiding it up and around just far enough that he can drag off the joint while Jason is still holding it. His lips brush Jason’s thumb and forefinger where he has the joint pinched between them, and Jason shivers.

“Um,” he says. “What are we talking about?”

Mateo is still leaning in, so Jason can feel the heat of his breath when he laughs. “I don’t remember,” he admits, biting his lip. He puts one hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Snakes, I think.”

“Oh,” Jason says, blinking. “What kind? And, why?”

“D’no,” Mateo shrugs. He smells sort of spicy up close, like fresh wood and that seasoning you put on watermelon to make it taste extra good. He slides his arm up and around the back of Jason’s neck. His hand is big, fingers warm and rough where they push up into Jason’s hair and sweep against the hinge of his jaw.

“Hey,” Mateo says, voice husky and low. “You wanna get out of here? Party’s cool and all, but I bet we’ll have more fun back at my place.”

Jason frowns, thoughts churning and fighting a losing battle to gain traction in the beer-soaked valleys of his brain. “You mean like, sexy fun?”

“Yeah. Unless that’s not your thing.” Mateo lifts one shoulder in a shrug but he doesn’t move away.

“I’ve never tried it before,” Jason confesses. “Except this one time in middle school, and that did not go great.” Benny Harrison had been cute and all, but his braces had torn Jason’s lip up so bad that he claimed he’d been mauled by a rabid mall chinchilla just to spare them both the embarrassment. Because, honestly, who hasn’t caught a rodent to the face twelve feet from a Jamba Juice kiosk? There’s a reason they call that a Jacksonville fastball.

Mateo looks kind of put out at this, so Jason hastens to add, “But that was like, forever ago, and you’re way hotter than Benny Harrison.”

“Thanks,” Mateo says, that easy grin returning in a lazy arc. “So, whaddya say?”

Jason considers this for a long moment and then reaches up to curl his fingers over Mateo’s arm. “We probably shouldn’t do any butt stuff,” he warns, with as much gravitas as he can muster. “I had two of Stupid Nick’s Disaster Buckets when I got here.”

“Yeah, your face is still kinda orange,” Mateo agrees fondly, bringing his other hand up to brush his thumb over Jason’s lower lip. It stirs a little frisson of heat in his belly that Jason is 68% sure isn’t just indigestion. “No chemical burns, though, so I think you came out on top.” He gives Jason’s neck a squeeze and then straightens up, pulling his hands away. Jason makes a soft noise of discontent and Mateo grins, “We don’t have to do butt stuff. We can just make out and watch Red Zone or whatever.”

Jason surges to his feet, sending a spray of water arcing through the air as he pumps his fists over his head and hollers, “Bortles!”

Roughly fifteen people swivel around and yell it right back at him, arms waving like victory flags. Pillboi is one of them, so Jason waves at him and cups a hand next to his mouth, shouting, “Hey yo, Pillboi! I’m going home with Matty Big-Time!”

“Oh, tight, yo!” Pillboi calls back, grin a broad white crescent in the dark. “That’s dope!”

“I think I’m gonna suck his dick!” Jason turns to bump knuckles with Mateo and is pleased to discover that Mateo already has his fist up, ready and waiting.

“Fuck yeah, bro!” Pillboi claps a hand to his chest, lower lip trembling like he’s watching one of those sad dog commercials. “Live your truth!” He holds his other hand up in a fist and intones, “Loud and proud, my brother! Loud and proud!”

Jason sniffs and swipes at his eyes and then he follows Mateo over the side of the hot tub and into the mud. A couple of girls shoot them bright, hopeful grins as they pass but none of them look as good as the swaying taper of Mateo’s hips while he leads the way through the house.

“So, so hot,” Jason croons, tucking his fingers over the waistband of Mateo’s shorts as he’s towed along in the other man’s wake.

“Hotter than Butt-Searing Buffalo Sauce?” Mateo grins over his shoulder.

And _nothing_ is hotter than Stupid Nick’s Butt-Searing Buffalo Sauce—Jason knows, from that time he drank eight ounces of it on a dare and had to get his stomach pumped—but damned if the curve of Mateo’s smile where it pulls a dimple into his cheek doesn’t come close.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this bit of silliness! I sincerely appreciate it.


End file.
